


Sobriquet

by thehobblefootalchemist



Series: their fathoms dim and winding [3]
Category: Mission: Impossible (Movies)
Genre: And hitting every note possible when you combine, Bonding, Complicated Relationships, Developing Friendships, Estrangement, Gen, I've been convinced for years that Ilsa and Lane knew one another before he went rogue, Other, This is my sprawling articulation of that conviction, Trauma, Will run from pre-canon through post-Fallout
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-24
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:27:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26055703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thehobblefootalchemist/pseuds/thehobblefootalchemist
Summary: "Does the name Solomon Lane mean anything to you?"The Prime Minister's reply is yes.  If the same question were ever put to Ilsa Faust her answer would be much the same, only with far more behind it--most of which she will never speak of.
Relationships: Ilsa Faust & Solomon Lane
Series: their fathoms dim and winding [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1289654
Comments: 1
Kudos: 6





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> _Whispers in the air  
>  tell the tales of a life that's gone  
> Desolation, devastation  
> What a mess we made, when it all went wrong_
> 
> \--Mike Oldfield, "Nuclear"

Ilsa has been waiting for over ten minutes past the scheduled start time for her appointment with Chief Atlee. She is skilled enough at suppressing any physical signs of impatience, but even so, the unexpected stint stuck in a reception area chair with nothing but the intermittent clacking of his secretary's fingers on their keyboard is starting to grate. Especially so because of her arrival being the requested fifteen minutes prior to the turn of the hour--she is not fond of perceived wasted time. It is enough to get her to engage in petty speculation as to whether or not he is taking an extended lunch or is dozing at his desk.

She almost starts when the secretary's phone buzzes. The secretary answers, hums, gives a few standard responses to the effect of "Yes sir, right away sir" and then sets the phone back in its cradle and looks over to her--notably, the first time they had done so since she had first walked into the space twenty-five minutes ago. "You'll be asked in shortly."

The line of her mouth subtly flattens as she watches them go right back to typing. Not someone to mince words, this one. In other circumstances she might appreciate the straight-talking, but right now it just feels like being fobbed off for a question she hasn't even voiced.

Hidden within her shoe, she taps a toe in time with the passing seconds on the silent wall clock.

Five hundred and forty-two taps later the door to Atlee's office opens to reveal its owner. "Ilsa. The debriefing carried on longer than anticipated, but you're welcome back now."

A debriefing? Curiosity sweeps away her restlessness. Inside the office there are of course no documents or screens left to indicate whatever it is that has been spoken of, but her intrigue still receives a reward: the figure of another individual in addition to Atlee occupying the room.

"This is Ilsa Faust," Atlee says from behind her. "Agent Faust, this is Solomon Lane. He's just returned from assignment and as such is free to take on another. Given that you are our agent to have most recently passed the field exams and he is a more seasoned operative, we will be pairing the two of you for the foreseeable future in an endeavor that I have outlined here, if you will sit down..."

There are a few seconds while Atlee is rounding the desk back to his chair that she is able to get a look in at Lane. He is sitting in a chair already himself and is watching her right back, and when their eyes meet something passes across his expression that she can't identify. However, she has the immediate conviction that in this instance _enigmatic_ is not mutually inclusive of _unpleasant_ : the lines in his face make a case for his current ghost of a frown being more of a natural state than anything to do with her. He inclines his head to her, as well, which while wordless is still more acknowledgment than she typically receives from other personnel, so she takes that for the esteem boost that it's worth.

The both of them turn their attention back to Atlee as the man settles himself in. Their summons is due to dire news: another of their agents has gone missing, and along with them documents of a highly sensitive nature. There is reasonable suspicion that they have been terminated by the party they'd been sent to shadow. As such, the two of them are going to pick up the slack--she notes this use of phrase, has to keep herself from stiffening in response to such terminology being used in the face of someone having died--with the goal of retrieving what was stolen and obtaining the information the agent was sent in pursuit of in the first place. Their departure is scheduled for ten o'clock that night.

For all the mission is projected to take weeks, it is a mere half hour of briefing before they are dismissed. Lane leaves first, wordless, and she unconsciously mimics his cue and follows after without a backward glance.

They end up standing next to one another in the hallway outside of the secretary's office space. People are walking and talking all around them, but neither she nor Lane are doing either, and the longer it goes on the more they become outliers. She has to say _something_. "I'll look forward to working with you."

With the odd air between them it almost comes out as a question, and he seems to share her sense of vague awkwardness if the way he looks down at his shoes is anything to go by. "Mm," is all he says in reply at first, followed up a few seconds later with, "I'll see you this evening."

He moves, then, walking away down the hall, and she slowly releases a breath as she watches him go. His voice has a more softspoken quality than she expected; it helps even out her uncertainty with the way he seemed to loom while next to her despite their negligible difference in height.

With a slight shake of her head she gets herself moving too. There are things to be done, and speculation as to whether she has been teamed with a stick in the mud or if Lane is simply a quiet type does not occupy a high spot on the list. On that front, she is certain time will tell.


	2. Chapter 2

She has a picture in her head of how the town looks outside. It's become somewhat of an amusement to fill the time in between each window-check with a self-administered quiz, listing out varying details of the surrounding environment that she checks her answers against on her subsequent glances between the curtains. The safe house's location means that there is seldom anything interesting in said environment, but it's at least a useful exercise in retention.

She is doing this for the fifth time that afternoon, in direct correlation with her partner having not breathed a word for over forty-five minutes.

Solomon Lane, as she has come to find out, is a reticent man. His volume is also naturally low: when he does speak it is with a tendency toward either a rasp or a mumble. She recalls the experience of their plane ride, hanging onto his words in effort to make sure she was hearing and parsing them right in spite of sitting mere feet from one another.

In this recent silent stretch he has spent most of it writing notes--longhand, she has no reason to observe and yet does anyway--but is now to all appearances simply staring into space. And that, to her restlessness, is far harder to resist interrupting.

She stops chewing her lip when she realizes she's doing it, and speaks up instead. "Lane?"

No reply.

Her jaw moves from side to side. With a few steps she puts herself in his field of vision and leans her head in to look him in the eye. "Lane."

He blinks at her; first in a return of awareness, and then in curiosity that is at least well-mannered if without any chagrin.

"The storage facility's security operates in three shifts of eight hours," she tells him. "A pair for each shift, alternating between patrols and keeping watch on the cameras. Their hub is the southwestern section of the facility's grounds and the rest is devoted to the units." She also verbally sketches the lay of the land surrounding the complex, gives an account of how much ammunition they have, and makes sure her voice is as level and flat as the desk at which he's sitting as she finishes with: "And based on my estimations, there are approximately two-thousand, five hundred and twenty leaves on the birch tree second from the left across the street."

It's a cheeky thing to say, and from the way his lips purse her attitude has very much been registered. It's acknowledgment rather than anger in his sigh, however, and his return words to her are, "Point taken." He stands, indicating with a gesture that she's welcome to take the chair in his place, and rubs at an eye with the heel of his hand. "They take care to send me into circumstances where strength in forward-planning is a necessity. Most of that thought process, for me, is internal. And this is the first circumstance in seven years that they've teamed me with anyone."

His words are plainspoken, and come across as apology rather than excuse. Mollified, she sits. "Where does that leave us?"

"You've gathered and shared your half of the intel we need to proceed. I suppose it's time for me to do the same with mine."

There's a quirk to his mouth, as if the idea makes him uncomfortable, and she can see why if he's worked alone as long as he says. This time patience comes to her more easily as she waits for him to talk.

His notebook is still open on the table, and he flips its pages back to where he first began writing. "The storage facility is our target because the mark has identified it as the location wherein the previous agent stashed the files that incriminate him. His goal will be to destroy the files, but searching the units individually is a non-option, as is attempting to raze the facility--the units are designed with resistance to structural damage in mind. This has left him in a forced holding pattern, and we will be taking advantage of it."

She can't help but stare, a little bit. "You've identified the unit."

He nods, scanning his notes. "I pulled the agent's file, the number crops up several times in past mission histories."

The way he speaks is absent, like he's picked up a coin on the ground rather than perceived vital information out of mere scraps. She's impressed and nonplussed in equal measure. "If the mark knows the facility, won't he be keeping an eye on it?"

"That's exactly why this will succeed." He flips to another page and points out a paragraph. "Several weeks ago an unidentified body was processed at the local morgue. The papers reported it as a mugging gone wrong, but the buried official coroner's report lists factors that indicate it was a professional hit. Our mark is no hitman, so this points to him having hired a third party as a catspaw." Distaste creeps into his tone. "And the fact that they allowed the body to be found is indicative that said catspaw has a taste for showing off."

"Crowing over a victory, as well as warning anyone else who might come." She thinks she can see where he's heading with this. "Which one of us will be the bait?"

"Me." He looks over to her. "I pulled your file as well. Since we'll be expected, your sniping ability places you as ideal cover for the inevitable attempt on me. They'll fall into the trap of confidence, and you will be situated to strike the moment that they do."

For all he's just claimed confidence as a trap his words suggest he holds a noteworthy amount of the sentiment in her, and she's inclined to overlook the double standard in favor of appreciating the implicit compliment. "When will we move?"

"Tonight, but not until past midnight. There's a piece of tech we'll require that I have on order that won't be in position for pick-up until nine."

She nods, and judges the light from outside. "We should have time for dinner, then, at least... And speaking of pick-ups, shall I swing by that sushi place we ordered from earlier this week? I remember you liking it."

The glance he throws her is sharp--almost startled. "I don't recall expressing any particular affinity..."

"You didn't, at least aloud. But for the rest of that evening you frowned less often."

That renders him mute for some time. Very eventually he speaks out in a murmur. "If you should like to go there, I would appreciate it."

"Same order as last time?"

"Please."

-

The witching hour finds her in a tree, her back against its trunk and a scarf over her face to keep her breath hidden in the chill autumn night. In her peripheral the lights of the twenty-four-hour storage complex are glowing. They're a siren call she reminds herself over and over again not to give in to. Her partner is doing his job inside, and she is doing hers...ironically, by watching the very place she would have staked out to sit had he been the one she needed her eyes on.

_"You say this is the best vantage point to be able to see down over the perimeter wall?" he asks, placing a fingertip over a mark she indicated on her map._

_"Yes. Especially considering the unit you'll be walking out of--anyone there would have a clear shot of you walking up that aisle."_

_"Then I'll want you here." His finger slides, tapping at a parallel point. "Your clear shot is what matters."_

Motion, to the right. She stiffens, focuses. Murmurs, "He's here."

"How very punctual of him." Their earpieces are high grade; Lane may as well have been whispering to her in person. "Two minutes and I walk."

"Acknowledged." Within her boot her toe taps to keep the time, and all the while she tracks her target's motions. Their special delivery is in her hands, and when she hits one hundred she raises it, aims, holds steady.

One-twenty. The target is in his own tree, now, and has not seen her. He's in the middle of raising his weapon, fixed on the aisle in the complex, when her shot catches him in the shoulder and the gun drops to the ground as he gives a muffled cry of pain. Snake-strike fast she switches firearms and shoots again, this time aiming for a knee. The man himself falls this time, and although he stands back up at ground level with enough awareness and strength to look wildly about the bullets she peppers into the earth near his feet convince him to flee at the fastest speed his injured limbs will manage.

"He's away," she breathes, already packing up and making her descent. "Got him with both."

There is no reply, but that's to be expected. Even considering the place is open for nights the security will likely be raising eyebrows at a man visiting at three in the morning, so best not to give any extra reasons--like appearing to talk to thin air--for them to look too closely. She remains concerned with her part, which is to proceed back through the woods to where her vehicle waits in a warren of residential streets. The ignition gives minimal protest against the cold but she is soon away.

Left, two rights, a long straightaway. She has the directions memorized and successfully ditches the car where they agreed, moving on foot two streets over to where her partner waits in his own vehicle. "No trouble?" she asks as she gets strapped in.

"None." He pulls onto the road again immediately. "The unit is sanitized and the files are in our possession. I'll need a direction."

"Already on it." She's fished out the tracking mechanism, scanning her eyes across it. The signal from the trace round is strong. "Five miles north, moving fast, veering northeast."

The car is silent save for her intermittent prompting when they need to change trajectory. Occasionally she will look up from the device to throw a glance his way, unable to contain her marveling: every single facet of his analysis has been correct so far, right down to his certainty that injuring the catspaw would result in a serviceable panic. She wonders if the last part of his prediction will come to pass too.

It's twenty further minutes before she gets to say, "He's slowing down." They're into the sticks, now, following a main road that branches into others every now and again. When the dot finally stops they purposefully overshoot the side path it had taken and pull off the road much further down, parking out of sight of any potential early-morning travelers. Dawn is not far off and the final stretch of a mission is the last time to take chances.

With scarves and loaded sidearms the pair of them make their way into the wood, him taking point and her following in his wake, keeping a weather eye on their tracking dot to affirm that its position has not changed. When his muted footsteps finally stop she looks up, finding his arm flung out in a gesture to wait: they've reached the edge of the treeline and come upon a vast lawn with a stately home at its center. Lights are on within the dwelling despite the hour. He looks back, glancing at the device and then to her face, and she nods--the man they want is inside.

There's a period of ten seconds--although it feels longer--where he looks at the house again. He then starts to walk once more, beckoning her as he picks his way through the trees in a wide half-circle around to the back of the property. Even without explanation for the move she finds her nerves are unruffled. She trusts the decision; trusts _him_.

Their comms are still active, so she is able to hear his directive of "Cover me" without him having to remove his scarf. As soon as she has her weapon drawn he is gone. For all that the morning light is about to break over the mountains his movements are like smoke in a night sky, weaving and nigh impossible to track. The last sight she has of him for some time is him ducking into a line of shrubbery beneath one of the lit sets of windows.

At some point she begins tapping her toe in her boot again. On the fifty-sixth there is a crashing from inside the house. With all of her senses on such high alert the din makes her start, adrenaline flooding her veins in such a quantity that it makes her arms ache, but nothing that she can see ever comes of it. Her partner does not check in with her. He would, if something was wrong. She waits.

The lights in the house flick off on the two hundred and ninetieth tap. He reemerges on the four hundred and seventeenth, slipping from the bushes and running his approach path in reverse. She keeps her aim in readiness until he is with her in the trees again, scanning the property still as she gives him a chance to catch his breath if he needs, shifting her attention only when she registers the two taps on her shoulder that is their signal for 'follow'.

For how tense she remains throughout it their trek back to the car is uneventful. No one accosts them on their way through the woods, and the sun is even out to greet them when they step out onto the footpath that runs parallel to the main roadway. Lane's pace is unhurried, almost meandering; she matches it, walking with him side by side.

"I take it things went well?" With their scarves still on she feels comfortable seeking the affirmation.

"Exceptionally." He doesn't strictly need to, considering their comms, but he nonetheless tilts his head in closer to hers as he elaborates: "Quite brash, our contract killer. Storming right back to his client's home and ranting very loudly about all manner of unsavory things."

She is grinning beneath her scarf, and bumps shoulders with him. "Upset that his 'cushy' gig got ruined, just like you theorized."

"The transcript is really quite something. You'll hear it later." He pats his pocket. They reach the car, and split off from one another to climb inside. He doesn't pull back onto the road straight away but starts up the engine for the heat. "In my experience triggering a state of high emotion is a reliable way of ensuring someone damns themselves. We've got all we need now to close the net around these two, and several more besides."

"Good." There is a coal of fierce satisfaction in her ribcage even as she has to rub her palms together from lingering chill. It's never been off her mind that they had been sent on this mission because one of their own had been killed. That can't be undone, but at least now they can do unto those responsible.

The pair of them pull their scarves away so that they can breathe more easily, and he gets the car back onto the road. Throughout the drive they are quiet--they're not going to make their report until they get back to the safe house--but there is far less of the stilted quality now than had pervaded some of their previous silences. A week and a half of close quarters has taught her that a furrowed brow, from him, is indicative of reflection rather than irritation, and she's coming to realize that mutual wordlessness could be its own form of companionship. It's less about not having anything to say, she thinks, and more about the comfort of company while not having conversation expected of you at every moment.

When Lane parks the car and kills the engine, he doesn't get out right away. His hand remains on the steering wheel, thumb moving back and forth across the leather as he looks out through the windshield. "...you did well."

It's not something she expected to hear and she's certain that is showing on her face. As grateful as she is for the validation she cannot help but stare at him, something which he keenly feels if the way he abruptly rubs his jaw with his free hand is in reaction to it.

"You did," he repeats, and appears to work to be able to turn his head to half catch her eye. "Especially for a first mission. There's real potential, in you."

Her breath stops in her throat from the sincerity in his expression, and something else flicks across it that makes her swallow. Neither is able to hold the other's gaze for long after that. They look away from each other near-simultaneously, and in equal unison exit the car.

They follow all of the expected actions, and capably make their reports, but throughout it all her mind is only half on the mission procedures. The rest of her can't let go of how Lane's face had looked; how admitting belief in her capability had given the blue of his eyes a shadow she couldn't name as anything but forlorn.


	3. Chapter 3

Remaining in a holding pattern in between missions is a part of the job. She knew this, when signing up, but after two weeks of inactivity a certain agitation has built up in her. She cannot rid herself of the sensation, and it is especially evident on the days that she is scheduled to check her drop-box--each time she takes the walk she is on tenterhooks, and so far each time she has made the trip back sour with disappointed expectations. Such a lengthy stretch with no word from anyone makes no sense to her. Surely in the literal worldwide list of possibilities there was _something_ she could be tasked with?

The morning that there is a folder waiting for her it is as if the dawn has broken in her chest as well as the sky. The thought that she will soon have a direction, instead of just pacing back and forth inside a sub-par apartment, makes it easier to breathe.

Her fingers itch with the holding of it but she forces herself to wait until she's back in her quarters before checking the folder's contents. There is a plane ticket inside, and a cell phone. The ticket she scans first--its stamped info informs her it's good for a flight to the next country over, scheduled for departure two hours from now--and then focuses on the phone. Once the necessary retinal and fingerprint scans have been satisfied she finds the machine blank of anything but a single text message: _Answer this on its third ring._

She checks the folder to be certain she's not missing any other information, but even after turning up nothing she supposes the trajectory of what she does have is clear enough. Board the indicated flight, and be ready to receive further instructions at any time. She actually rather appreciates the simplicity.

And she _certainly_ appreciates the thought that this will be the last time she ever has to look at this place's wallpaper.

-

There are flurries of snow in the city she touches down in later that day, and she's more than pleased to walk the streets among it all after exiting the airport. Where she'd just come from the winter has been far more dry. Her temperature tolerance is fairly decent in either direction, so the colder weather there hadn't made her much mind, but from an aesthetic standpoint she can't deny she's missed the precipitation. It makes for a picturesque backdrop as she waits to hear from her contact.

The cell phone is nestled in the right-hand pocket of her long coat, and she keeps her hand curled around it within the fabric as she walks. After twenty minutes she hears its first nondescript ring; by its third she has pressed the button to receive and held it to her ear.

"Good afternoon, Agent Faust."

It's been three months since she heard it last, but there is no mistaking that voice. "Lane!"

She hears a chuff from over the line. "Me," he agrees. She gets the impression that he's been caught off guard by her gladness, albeit in a gratified way. "What street are you on?"

Scanning around, she reports her current position and gives the intersecting avenue as well when she reaches the corner.

"All right. From there you'll want to head east..." He proceeds to give her a set of directions, speaking them to her as-needed, and then pauses when she's come upon a certain landmark. "You recall how you left your car the last time we worked with one another?"

_Left, two rights, a long straightaway._ "I do."

"Splendid. Take the alley door of the building you find after following that pathway. Fourth floor, northeast corner."

He cuts the call, and even with its abrupt end she cannot help but smile to herself. The travel alone has already been a remarkable antidote to her doldrums, and now she knows she will also have the added bonus of being with a familiar face--or, at least, familiar voice. However much she hopes it will be the case she reminds herself that just because she's been instructed to a location it doesn't necessarily mean he's there himself to meet her.

When she arrives the alley door is unbarred, as implied. From its outside she's gotten the impression the building is disused--nigh decrepit--office space and finds her suspicions much confirmed on her way through and up the stairwell. The temperature isn't much better on the inside than without, nor does there appear to be any power.

She'll still take it over the rooms she'd been living with hitherto. She's never going to forget or forgive that wallpaper.

The fourth floor is the penultimate one. A long hallway greets her when she steps out of the stairwell, which she follows until she reaches the only actually closed door that she can see. With how tomb-quiet the building is overall it doesn't surprise her in the least that the sound of her footsteps has preceded her; she's hardly stopped in front of the barrier before she hears it being unlocked.

He's grown out a beard since she's last seen him. "Good afternoon," he tells her again, and although there are shadows beneath his eyes, the subtle crinkling of the crow's feet at their corners as he stands back to let her through speaks to the fact that he's glad to see her too.

She'd initially thought to reply that it was good to see him, but the platitude dies in her throat as she gets a good look at what she's walked in on. The room is decently large but barren of all furniture save for a table and a single chair, upon which are multiple stacks of documentation, and while the many and uncurtained windows let in a great deal of the available natural light she can tell that the space's heat retention will be miserable.

"I assume that the view is a good portion of the draw, here?" she asks. There can be no other reason than strategic necessity for these living conditions.

"This was the only available space I could sequester for myself long-term that had the angle that I needed on the port, yes." He shuts and locks the door. "Although, the days and times that are safe to monitor it are few and far between. Which is why I've spent much of my work in the back room."

She hears him walking and follows after, toward a door ajar along the far left wall. The space beyond it is much smaller than the outer room but comparatively more appealing: it is windowless, for a start, and appears to be the only section of the building somehow rigged up to any form of electricity. Directly in front of the door are two cots, spaced about a foot apart from one another with a lamp placed between them, and taking up the rest of the space to their right is another table, shelf stable foods and a few cooking appliances atop it while a space heater hums beneath.

"I was able to acquire the second bed when I had confirmation you were coming," he informs her. "You can store your things beneath it. Have you eaten?"

"Only what was available on the plane." She edges past him so that she can do as he suggested, and she can see him make a face.

"I'll get a meal going, then. I'm afraid it won't be many degrees better, but it will at least be something to tide you over until I've got you caught up and we can step out for preferable fare."

"How long have you been here?"

"Two and a half months," he says as he sets up a hot plate. "There were some loose ends I tied off with our previous mission, after which I was sent here."

While he cooks he goes on to explain the purpose of his perch. The city's port has been identified as a linchpin for illegal shipments, and it has been his task to collate the manifests from across the past year in the effort of identifying when, how, and where the illicit cargo is being moved. As their building is supposedly abandoned they will be able to use the daylight hours in the main room to comb through the paperwork, but after dusk they will need to isolate in the back room and only make use of the lamplight when the door is securely shut.

It is a straightforward, if information-dense, prospect. After he's finished the food and portioned it out for the both of them he takes her back out into the main room, and they use the bowls as a means of warming their hands while he walks her through his methodology for sorting through the stacks. He still has his leather-bound notebook from their time together before and shows her the pages he's been jotting down relevant discrepancies.

She almost asks after his tendency to prefer longhand, but it occurs to her that she can likely answer her own question: charging a laptop isn't always a guarantee, and while a notebook could conceivably be stolen off of his person, so really could anything else. And there's the added bonus that--at least so far as she is aware--paper can't be hacked.

By and by evening drains the daylight. They move the papers into the back before the sun is gone, placing them on their cots until they return. While he takes his coat down from the nail in the wall from which it hangs she waits for him by the door; with the average temperature in the building she had never bothered removing her own.

"We'll be going a particular direction," he tells her as they head down the stairwell. "I do mean to take you to dinner, but we'll use the opportunity to head past the docks along the way."

"We'll eventually be staking them out from closer in, then?"

"Yes. I have a vehicle lined up for that goal, down the line."

Outside the snow is still falling, and beginning to stick. For now there isn't a worry but she makes a mental note to keep an eye on the ground whenever they return so that they can cover their tracks into the alley; for how careful they're being about the light upstairs it won't do to leave any traces of their presence visible on ground level.

Considering the weather and the chill there are a decent amount of other pedestrians out and about. It is easy to blend into the ebb and flow of the foot traffic. She recalls, belatedly, that it is a Saturday, and wonders at the last time she had occasion to think about a 'weekend' in the way an ordinary citizen conceptualized it.

She's pulled from her thoughts by a nudge to her shoulder. Her partner is looking down at her from where he walks by her side, and once he's got her attention he gestures minutely with his chin. Following the prompt she turns her head and looks out over the docks. To all appearances she is a tourist taking in a new cityscape, but for all her expression is schooled into one of merely passing interest she is mapping and memorizing all that she can.

The place to which they arrive for dinner is a corner bistro several blocks up from the portside area. When they are settled in at a table he pulls out a pair of reading glasses to peruse the menu, and she can't help but comment. "Those are new."

"Mm," is all she receives in reply, which both amuses and does not surprise her--she had, after all, made a remark that didn't necessarily invite response.

"For show or no?" is her next try, to which he volunteers readily that the prescription is quite real. An 'ah' noise leaves her. "That's the reason you needed someone, then," she speculates. "With all the reading I can see how you'd be in want of some fresh eyes."

"Partially," he allows, but looks up at her to clarify. "I did specifically ask for you, and would have done even if you were in need of glasses as well. It's the _way_ one looks at things that's important. And I'd like yours."

She is quiet as she processes this. For a person whom she knows to be exceptionally skilled in analysis to consider her input valuable, and worth seeking--that matters.

He has gone back to looking through the menu. His thumb is moving along the laminate's edge, back and forth.

_Like that day in the car._

If she's correctly learning his body language, the sharing of what he'd said was having a similar effect on him as it had for her to hear it. Since he needn't have elaborated--could well have stayed silent--that makes it hit all the harder.

For how deeply it goes she leaves the expression of her gratitude to the single comment of, "I appreciate it." The dynamic they'd built over their previous mission was one she enjoyed, and wanted to cultivate. Recognizing that he doesn't say much, and doing him the service of not putting him on the spot about it when he does, is the least she can do for her part.

She is, however, compelled to add one more thing: "I was happy to hear it was you, on the other end of the line."

His thumb stills. He raises his head, starts to look at her in a way she registers as searching, but the moment is broken by the serving staff's arrival and inquiry about their preference for drinks.

-

It is pleasantly simple to find a routine. The day-to-day is clear-cut--divide a pile of manifests between themselves, take note of anything suspicious, and compare notes in order to piece together any possible patterns--and likewise, their previous mission leaves them well-suited to navigating interpersonal expectations. Despite the small square footage of their workspace there is no sense of being crowded. They alternate between who is responsible for replenishing their coffee and take dinner at eight o'clock every evening, meandering on foot to the portside bistro every Tuesday and Saturday, and once settled onto their cots they wind down for the night by passing a book of sudoku puzzles back and forth. So far as she can tell, everything is going well.

The evening before they are finally scheduled to stake out the docks, Lane's phone rings.

From the sharp manner with which he looks at his pocket, and the depth of the frown on his face as he withdraws the cell, she infers that the call is as unexpected to him as it is to her. She'd been halfway to their sleeping quarters with their papers for the day but pauses her step to watch him answer it.

"Lane," he says, with a curtness she's hitherto never heard from him. There's puzzlement in his brow that furrows further the longer the person on the other end speaks, and for a split second his expression resembles something close to anger before he shuts his eyes and an eerie stillness overtakes his face. It's as if life itself has left him--he doesn't even appear to be breathing, not until he murmurs "Acknowledged" and slips the phone back into his pocket.

She says nothing. Full dark is encroaching, outside.

"I have to go out," he says, after all the light is gone. "The information is need-to-know only. Please give me a moment."

He walks past her, shutting the door to the back room behind him. The noise of him flicking on the lamp is followed by a minute's rustling, and the room is dark once more when he emerges again.

"I don't know how long I'll be, so don't feel obligated to stay awake until I return. There's no call for it." Nearly inaudibly he adds, "Not on my account."

There's something to it, the way he is speaking. Not quite mechanical...distant, is the word. On instinct she reaches out a hand and lays it upon his arm. It's not a sure thing in the dark, but she thinks she hears him intake a breath.

He doesn't say anything about it, however. Only reiterates, "Don't wait up for me," and then is gone.

She proceeds as she would have done before the phone call, setting up on her cot and tending to the sheaf of records that still needed combed through. It doesn't impede her focus or progress but as she finishes up it does occur to her that the silence almost feels strange, tonight. She eventually concludes that sitting in quiet alone versus doing it with someone else hit very differently, and is still pondering over that discovery after she turns in.

Late night has not yet turned to early morning when she stirs, awoken by a rustling. The room is varying shades of black and it takes her a moment to identify the moving silhouette of her partner.

Still drowsy, she does not think about how she calls out to him. "Solomon?"

He stills at that, and through the darkness his voice carries back to her. "I was hoping not to wake you."

The muted and oddly listless notes have her reaching to flick on their lamp. "What's wrong?"

He has seated himself on the edge of his cot. There are snowflakes in his hair and an almost imperceptible twitch to his jaw. He doesn't answer.

The longer she looks at him the more the puzzle pieces fall into place. "It's something to do with the need-to-know."

He nods in such a way that suggests he isn't consciously aware of making the gesture; likewise, she has no recollection of sitting up. With how close the cots are they are almost touching knees.

"Will you be all right?" she asks him.

"...I'll sleep," is his eventual response. "And I'll wake up, and we'll continue with the mission."

It's tantamount to a 'no', and her throat is tight with the knowledge. When she doesn't reply aloud he glances up and quickly moves his gaze to the floor again after reading whatever is showing on her face.

"I'll sleep," he repeats.

"But not rest," she says back. She couldn't have taken her eyes away from him even if she'd wanted to. "...it's things like this, isn't it? Why you looked sad when you told me I had potential."

Something quirks around his mouth, the smallest note of life back in him as he murmurs, "Always so perceptive..." His shoulders hunch, however, what she suspects is forced detachment creeping in. "It's the nature of the work--the wider your capabilities, the wider array of tasks you're made to perform."

He is tired, she realizes, but not the kind that anyone off the street could have seen. Something deeper; an exhaustion outside of the need for sleep, something entirely beyond the scope of anything to do with muscle or bone.

The quiet between them is heavy. He is the first to speak out into it again. "Go back to sleep." There's a crack in the words that can't be explained away even by his usual rasp. "Please."

His message is clear: get what rest you can, while you can. A cold stone does manifest in her belly at the almost-warning, but for the moment her warmth toward him for the sentiment overshadows it.

"Hey," she says, making sure she has his attention. " _Hey_." When he's raised his eyes to hers, she tells him, "You first. And that's not agent to agent--that's me as a person to you as a person, okay?"

She wants to say friend--the word catches behind her ribcage and carves itself there, aching--but moreso than that she doesn't want to push anything while he is already trying to withdraw.

The snow in his hair has melted by the time he finally blinks, and in all that while he has not looked away from her face. He does not speak, but his lips move, mouth the word _okay_.

He shrugs out of his coat, and she resettles herself on her mattress so he can lean down and untie his boots.

"I'll leave the lamp on," she tells him. "An old trick I learned for bad nights is that low light is better than no light."

He is lying down now too. There really isn't a lot of space in this back room. With a simple stretch of her hand she could have touched his shoulder, his face.

"How did you come to find that out?" he asks her.

"Well, lamps are used for keeping darkness away. It follows naturally that they work just as well with internal shadows as external ones." Her knuckles brush her temple.

"I see," is his reply, and it is very soft.

It's only when his gaze moves to his sheets that she becomes aware of how long they'd held eye contact. He eventually shuts his eyes, and only when his breathing evens out does she allow herself to close her own.

She dreams of footprints in the snow, two sets walking side by side.

-

The following day they take a last dinner at the bistro before moving forward with their stakeout plans. By nine they have finished up their meal, and by ten they have moved across the city to where his car awaits them. Conditions are favorable. There is no precipitation, and therefore no tire tracks to give away their recent arrival to the docks. She is also sharply grateful they don't need to concern themselves with their visibility being impaired--not being able to run the vehicle without the exhaust giving away their position means no continuous source of heat, which would have left them in a poor position indeed should snow have begun collecting on their windows. 

The car has been stopped for approximately twenty minutes when he speaks, out of the blue. "You called me by my first name last night."

She had wondered if he'd noticed that. It's something she herself only remembered sometime that morning, and the inexplicable self-consciousness she felt then skitters in again now. "I did."

A period of further silence, and then: "We have an interesting relationship with our names, you and I. Your last can be taken as an allusion to famous literature, and my first as a reference to a prominent historical figure."

"Very true." She keeps her response neutral, attempting to feel out if it's a one-time observation and give him room to veer toward his point if not.

"...I don't like my name." He's staring straight ahead, his murmur so faint it's barely speech at all. "It's so uncommon that it sticks in memory, which is the last thing one wants in this profession. And I'm not fond of the biblical tether."

It's the most he's ever spoken up about himself. Under any other circumstances such short, simple sentences would not have struck her so, but from him... Sidelong in the gloom she looks at him, and though little has shifted in his features there is the impression that somewhere, in some way, a barrier has been lowered. Dimly she registers her heart rate stuttering.

"I can call you something else, if you like." The offer thankfully comes out far steadier than her pulse. "I wouldn't be able to do it off-mission, but if it's just the two of us... I could call you Sol."

He is meeting her eyes now, and though his look is askance there's something else--a second-cousin to hesitancy that puts a thrill through her chest and the idea in her head that there might be another wall close to coming down. "There's still a Saul in the bible."

His words are not dismissive. They are, in fact, so amiable that she has the distinct awareness she might have just been _teased_.

Her jesting riposte--"That's spelled differently and you know it"--results in something wonderful: he laughs. The sound is as soft and scratchy as his speaking voice and yet it seems to fill the entire car. "You've got me there."

She has never seen a smile on his face before. It's a struggle to direct her attention back out towards the docks. "Sol it is, then."

In her peripheral he resettles in his seat and also looks back out into the night. "The things you have to say are always interesting."

The way his voice trails off reads like a question, and a smile forms on her own lips as she answers it. "Ilsa." They still have to refrain from running the heat system to avoid undue attention, but the interior of the vehicle gains a warm atmosphere nonetheless. "You can call me Ilsa."


End file.
